Cuts both ways
by squarey
Summary: From a writing prompt, disappointment. Bobby and then Alex.
1. Bobby

**Title:** Cuts both ways  
**A/N:** From a livejournal challenge, prompt "Disappointment"

**Bobby**

#

"I just wish you would've stuck with it Bobby. You could've been good, really good. You know, this could've taken you to college. You could've played college ball."

_Stick with it. What the hell do you know about that? The man who couldn't stick with anything. Couldn't stick with his wife. Couldn't stick with his kids. Could barely even attend a god damn game. _

_#_

"Oh Bobby. Why couldn't you be more like your brother Frank? Look at what a good student he is. Look at how popular he is. Everyone is always calling the house for Frank. He's always going out to parties, always going out with the girls. Maybe if you would just lighten up a bit… maybe if you could just let some things go…"

_And how the hell am I supposed to do that? I leave the house for too long and I have no clue what I'm coming home to. One day everything is fine, the next day everything is upside down_. _What do you know about Frank? What do you know about what he's doing? What do you know about me?_

_#_

"You want to go back to New York and be a cop? You want to walk a beat? What're going to do, write parking tickets? You should stay with me. You have so much more to learn. You could be great. You have greatness inside of you. If you would just..."

_Army CID. I already am a cop. A damn good cop. When it comes to killers, you see so much. The people around you – you can't see at all._

_#_

"Goren, you don't know when to let things go. You need to let this go, look at the big picture."

_Let things go… or see things through… lighten up a bit… or show some respect... be a cop… or be politic… make up your damn mind Captain._

_#_

"Hey mister, last call. You sure you need another?"

_Take the shot, nice and neat. Hmm… stay with this or let this go. Never the right choice. If I stand up, I'll hit the floor. I need a ride home, I need to go home. I need…_

"Yeah, Eames, it's me, I need you… I, um, need you to give me a ride…"


	2. Alex

**Alex**

**#**

Ugh. 2:36am. I look at the clock beside my bed, my eyes bleary with sleep. My phone has been ringing for what seems like forever, so I slowly crawl toward the edge of the bed and pick it up.

"Hello. Hello?"

Dial tone. They hung up. But wait, if they hung up, why is my phone still ringing? I throw my land line phone down with a crash onto the floor and start fumbling around for my cell.

"Hello. Hello?" No response, so I'm thinking I can get back to sleep after all. I'm about a millisecond from hanging up when I hear an all too familiar voice.

"Eames?"

"You dialed my number right?" I'm in no mood to be on the phone with Bobby Goren at 2:36, no wait, 2:37 in the morning.

"Yeah." He replies, I can barely hear him.

"So, it's me." I roll onto my back, looking at the ceiling of my bedroom, pissed that I can feel the last vestiges of sleep slipping away. I can hear conversation in the back ground, some laughter. Bobby is out someplace, a bar probably. Why else would his judgment have lapsed to such a degree that he would be calling me after 2:00 in the morning?

"Yeah, Eames, it's me, I need you… I, um, need you to give me a ride…" His voice is thick, barely intelligible. I roll out of bed, my bare feet hitting the cold floor. I shuffle across the room to pull on some clothes. I hate him for that, for needing me when he has no business needing me.

"Right. Where are you?" I also hate that I cannot turn him down.

"Um." He replies, and I can practically feel him looking around, as if he cannot remember exactly where he is. Finally, after I have pulled on my jeans and a sweater and have started to scrounge around for my shoes, he establishes where he is and gives me the address.

"20 minutes." I say, and snap my phone closed.

When I arrive, I do not see him right away and I think I've come to the wrong place. Then, I'm irritated that maybe I'm in the right place and that he's found some other ride home. Maybe he forgot that he called me. I don't see him at the bar. But, then it occurs to me to look at the tables. Finally, I find him sitting alone in a booth, clumsily trying to get an empty shot glass to spin on the table. I slide in across from him, grab the shot glass, and set it in motion into a perfect spiral spin. He watches the shot glass for a moment. I am struck by how different he looks. Sometimes I feel as if my mental picture of him is frozen from many years ago. He was tall, and dark, and thin, with longish sideburns and a frequent smile. He is far from those things now. He is grey, and bearded, and no longer as thin as he once was. And, I cannot remember the last time I saw him smile.

"Ready?" I ask.

"For what?" He seems a little surprised by my question.

"You called me for a ride." I reach out and smack my hand on top of the shot glass, stopping it from spinning. I place it upside down on the table in front of me. I wonder how many empty shot glasses came before this one.

"Yeah." He says, and I'm not sure if he is responding to the fact that he remembers calling me for a ride, or that he is ready to go. But I don't really care. It is now after 3:00 in the morning, and if he wants a ride with me, then he is ready.

"Can you make it?" I ask because he is not moving. He is simply sitting there, slumped on the heels of his hands. He looks at me for a long moment, as if I've asked some deeply philosophical question – like can he make it through life? As always, my pragmatic literalness disappoints him, for I'm not even asking him if he can make it through the night, I'm just asking if he can make it to the car.

"Yeah." He pushes himself slowly to standing and kind of shuffle-stumbles out of the booth. He stands for a moment, testing his balance, and I follow him to the door. We are out on the street, almost to the car, when he misjudges the curb and lurches forward then backward. I reach out for him as he starts to fall, I always seem to do that, automatically reach for him. He doesn't try to catch hold of me. He reaches for the car instead. I wrench my back as I miss him, and also fall against the car. I wonder if I'll ever learn to stop reaching for him and hurting myself in the process.


End file.
